


Left Unsaid

by FairTradeHoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x06, Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairTradeHoney/pseuds/FairTradeHoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deleted scene from 9x06, "Heaven Can't Wait." Pretty angsty. Deals with the aftermath of Ephraim. </p>
<p>Doing a bit of a 30 Day OTP Challenge here. This is Day 1: Holding Hands</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Unsaid

Dean sat at the table in Nora’s kitchen, sipping on a beer he’d found in her fridge. They’d finally gotten Tanya to sleep and after the evening’s events he needed to wind down, to let the stress of Ephraim’s attack dissipate. To some degree it was always like this after a hunt, the feeling of resembling an overfilled balloon in want of purging. The residual energy clashing beneath his skin was palpable but, as always, slowly tempered down, moving toward a more natural state. The whole process seemed to take longer than usual tonight, and Dean understood well enough that this time the hunt wasn’t the only source of his anxiety. 

Dean looked across the table to where Cas was sitting, his own beer in hand. He didn’t appear to be drinking it, but was slowly peeling the label, leaving a small pile of metallic paper bits on the table in front of him. His eyes stared at the bottle intently, as if the secrets of the universe were etched into the glass. More likely he was effortfully avoiding eye contact. As grateful as he was for Dean’s help in defeating Ephraim, Cas was still wounded from being turned out of the bunker and, for all intents and purposes, abandoned by his closest friend. 

They sat like this, Dean sipping and Cas peeling, each listening to the other breathe, neither of them knowing what to say. The silence was oppressive, heavy with shame and regret, with betrayal and resentment, made even worse because it never should have been this way. Dean and Cas were connected; they were bonded. Against odds, they understood each other: the hunter and his angel, both living just outside normal day-to-day life, both uniquely broken. Only Cas wasn’t really an angel any longer, and the price he’d paid for losing his grace was steep. Right now it wasn’t clear if he would ever stop paying.

Finally, predictably, Dean broke. Having finished his drink, he was left with nothing to occupy his attention, or rather with nothing to pretend occupied his attention. “We need to clean up your hand,” he said. “Sit tight. I’ll grab the med kit from the car.” Cas nodded, but remained silent. 

Dean stood up from the table, staring down at Cas and his ever-growing pile of paper. Dean yearned to tell Cas about Ezekiel, how he’d been rebuilding Sam from the inside. How Sam doesn’t know, can’t know. How Ezekiel forced him to send Cas away by threatening to leave Sam to die. How the threat of losing Sam was literally the only thing that could have convinced Dean to push Cas out. Still Dean said nothing, because although he was still so unsure of his decisions, he felt he had no option but to stand by those choices, no matter the guilt they created. Instead he headed out the front door towards the Impala.

As the front door swung shut behind Dean, Cas exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath since Dean had stood up. Nearly imperceptibly, his shoulders sank a couple inches, and he finally took a sip of his beer. 

Dean returned and dropped the first aid kit on the table. He drug his chair around the table, positioning it next to Cas’, and started rifling through the kit for rubbing alcohol. “Here,” Dean says. “Let me see how bad it is,” reaching out for Cas’ hand. Dean determined from the range of motion that the wrist was probably just sprained, not broken, and set to work on the series of gashes that ran across Cas’ palm. He used a pair of tweezers to deftly remove any remaining splinters.

“Sit tight,” he said, tearing open the package for an alcohol wipe. “This is going to hurt.” 

With his right hand, Dean gently clutched Cas’ left. Using his free hand, Dean pressed the wipe to the largest cut. Cas shrank back, inhaling sharply through his teeth, but didn’t pull away completely. Dean pivoted his thumb, gently tracing it back and forth across the outside of Cas’ wounded hand, and felt the tension fade from his palm. As Dean continued to clean the smaller cuts, Cas appeared to adjust to the discomfort. When the hand was thoroughly cleaned, Dean lifted it before his face and glanced up, looking at Cas’ eyes for the first time since he’d returned with the first aid kit. Cas’ own eyes continued to bore holes into the oak tabletop. Dean blew softly across the surface of Cas’ hand.

The warm air of Dean’s breath turned cool as it danced over the open wounds on Cas’ palm, sending a shiver across the planes of the angel’s back and down his spine. Cas’ blue eyes jerked upward, finally meeting Dean’s gaze. He held that position silently, his stare reflecting the weight of all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. He wanted to rage at Dean at for forsaking him, but also to delight at seeing his friend again. Finally, he wanted to curse the humanity that left him in a position of needing to relentlessly negotiate such inconsonant emotions. But he didn’t say a word, and he was proud he managed to stop the tears he was afraid of shedding from making their way to the surface.

Dean wouldn’t have needed to look into Cas’ eyes to understand the hurt that lay behind them. He knew the role he had played in putting it there. It wasn’t easy, though, seeing the pain he’d caused, and his heart physically ached at the sight of Cas. Cas was changed, and not just because he no longer had his grace. He was raw, damaged. Dean held his gaze, reasoning that the punishment of facing the consequences of his actions paled in comparison to what Cas had gone through. Dean said a quick, silent prayer that Sam would be healed before it was too late to hope for Cas’ forgiveness. To whom he prayed wasn’t clear. 

Dean reached for the gauze, breaking eye contact for a moment, and when he looked back, Cas had returned to staring at the table. He quickly wrapped and taped Cas’ hand, confident it would be back to normal in a few days. When he was finished, almost instinctively, Dean reached his left arm across the table and gently ran his thumb over the fingers of Cas’ right hand. He lifted Cas’ fingers from where they’d been gripping the edge of the table. Dean squeezed Cas’ hand in his own and Cas glanced from their joined hands back up to Dean. The intimacy of the gesture caught Cas off guard for a moment. Holding both Dean's gaze and his hand, Cas eventually squeezed back.

Dean saw a shift behind Cas’ eyes then, and although he didn’t quite understand what it meant, he was hopeful. 

Cas said nothing, perhaps because he was taking his cues from Dean, or perhaps because he was unsure if he’d be able to find the right words. He just sat, holding on to Dean's hand, feeling connected to something for the first time in weeks.

Had he managed to speak, he would have told Dean that he was still angry and confused, but that his greatest fear had been quashed: he hadn't lost Dean. By taking Cas’ hand in his own, Dean had told him that he still cared, that he missed him, and that he would continue to look out from him in whatever way he could.

Cas felt the tension beneath his own skin begin to relax. He realized that whatever kept them apart now wasn’t permanent and they would find their way back to each other eventually. Having felt helpless and alone for months, that small glimmer of hope was good enough.


End file.
